“Dammit!” said the man who called himself Ernest Hemmingway. “I will not have this!” He carried an umbrella and an old black case.
“I want a room,” he demanded, “that overlooks the ocean and with a small table on which to put my typewriter. I’m here to write a novel, which will undoubtedly be a classic. Damn right!”
“But Sir,” the desk clerk said, “you should have made a reservation. This is the peak of the tourist season, and we have absolutely nothing available.” Then he walked away to attend to another arrival.
“I want a room,” he demanded, “that overlooks the ocean and with a small table on which to put my typewriter. I’m here to write a novel, which will undoubtedly be a classic. Damn right!”
“But Sir,” the desk clerk said, “you should have made a reservation. This is the peak of the tourist season, and we have absolutely nothing available.” Then he walked away to attend to another arrival.
